


The Case of the Sleeping Death

by DeathsLights



Series: Redemptionis of the Infernus [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Case Fic, Dark, Gen, Invasion of Privacy, John is a Saint, Murder Mystery, Poor Lestrade, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock-centric, Slow Build, he really is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathsLights/pseuds/DeathsLights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a puzzle now, threaded and deeply weaved and he wants to unravel it with his fingers, pick it apart and study all of it, all the parts, broken and flawed festering with dark memories. Sherlock wants to take John’s mind apart pick at all the scabs and wounds in there; he wants to study all of John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Sleeping Death

**Author's Note:**

> I know this probably has a bunch of mistakes my beta writeswithfeatherquills tried her best but I know I make a lot of mistakes which is I need a beta to help her out and if you want to offer your services please I would be most grateful for your help.
> 
> *Bows* Thank for taking the time to read this, it means a lot to me.
> 
> Also there will be eventually Johnlock but it will be later when I get to it. It is coming rest assured! But it will be slow developing.

**The Case of the Sleeping Death**

There is an electric impulse underneath his skin that strains to breakout; the current is agitated and frustrated.

 _There is no escape_.

He wants to claw off his own flesh, dig his fingers into his skin and peel it right off the bone, watch the muscles underneath twitch and contract, at least then he’d be somewhat preoccupied and there wouldn’t be this clutter that never ceases in his mind. Sound that refuses to be silenced that beats against the inner walls of skull, insistent and maddening. A destructive, chaotic and consuming melody of insanity is what thrashes in his mind, threatening to seize and drag him down.

 _There is an itch_.

A craving deep in his gut that reaches its gangly and gnarled fingers to grasp at his neck and squeeze so an uncomfortable prickle is lodged at the back off his throat that even the six patches scattered on his arm will not dislodge from his neck. There is a dull, nonexistent pressure in his arm; an ache where the track marks used to be. He recalls the path he would inject onto his skin, the trail would work itself down his vein, other times he’d write a symphony on his skin, it would start off flawless and slowly fall into madness and insanity without meaning or rhythm. A scattered trace of mixes of red, blue and purple that stood monstrously against his too pale skin, made it look sickly, diseased and festering. He’d stare at them for hours memorized, entranced, letting his fingers follow the path.

At a glance, a barely indistinguishable breathing pattern is detected. If there wasn’t the occasional blink one would assume Sherlock wasn’t a physical entity but instead a beautifully crafted sculpture...well until Sherlock opened his mouth and degraded everyone. He hasn’t moved from his position in hours, sprawled on the length of the sofa with his hands steeled under his chin and his eyes fixated on the ceiling, dressed in his blue nightgown, sleep pants and a ratty shirt.

“John,” he mutters. “I need another patch.”

Silence answers him.

“John.”

Sherlock tries once more.

“John!” but the result is the same, he lets out a frustrated huff and his nostrils flare.

“John!”

The prick of agitation grows, Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow down. It was just a jumper, a hideous jumper. John should be thanking him for getting rid of that monstrosity. It was merely minor fiber disintegration in a tub of acid. John should get over it and move on.

Oh, wait, was John angry about the sweater or the tub of acid? Or was it both? Hm. Better hold off on experimenting with John’s jumpers for this week.

Well he wasn’t entirely too cross about it though, on the table next to him, in the midst of newspaper clippings, folders, are multiple cups of tea and plates of biscuits that John has left in the vain and futile hope that Sherlock will eat something. So why was he not responding?  

“John?” Sherlock tilted his head and blinked, his eyes straining in the darkness of the room. Ah, it was night, judging from the intensity of moonlight as well as the streetlights it was approximately 2 am.

No wonder John had not responded he was sleeping, he sneered, how dull. Sherlock flopped back down into his previous position starting sightlessly at the ceiling above him. He slowly blinked.

It is insufferable. Intolerable. Unbearable. Agonizing.

Bored.

_Bored._

_Bored._

**_Bored_**.

**He was so utterly bored!**

How did the lesser beings manage in their mundane and feeble little insignificant minds, how did they deal with this? Live with such tedious boredom?

Not a bloody case, on the blog or from the Yard—there must be something that would take the dull monotonous tug of boredom away from him? He had already finished his experiments on the body parts in the fridge this week. What to do?

His eyes drifted around the room and Sherlock’s lip quirked. He’d borrow John’s gun, really it was his fault for not getting him another patch and leaving him unattended.

*

He noiselessly climbs up the stairs mentally taking note to avoid the creaking fourth and fifth steps and slowly grasps the knob twisting it, at about halfway the doorknob stuck. Sherlock blandly stared and let out a snort of contempt. Honestly, did John have so little faith in his at lock picking skills? He reached into his bathrobe pocket, pulled his set of pin and tumbler lock picks, and bent down choosing two from the set he got to work quickly and efficiently, he jiggles the picks and in a few seconds, there is a click. Four seconds, five seconds off the last time he had tried, but he could still do better. Sherlock quickly stands and opens the door letting it swing halfway as to not hit the wall, he pauses at the threshold and in a glance, survey’s and mentally assesses the room.

Meticulous as always, habits from the war he supposes–no, John doesn’t have a problem with him being messy, the living room and kitchen is a testament to that it’s just _his_ room he keeps in order. Could be an army habit but there was something more to it mostly, something from his childhood he files it away from later contemplation when he’s bored enough to figure things out. John is very efficient in his morning ritual; his clothes for tomorrow are hanging on the wardrobe. It’s one of his better jumpers, a steel grey wool that looks tolerable compared to the other items in his cupboard and a pair of dark trousers, he either has a date or someone he has to impress. Sherlock’s eyes stray to the dresser next to window and he has got his expensive cologne out and Sherlock sneers, a date then. Honestly the cologne was wrong on John’s skin, the scent foreign and invasive, it didn’t suit the doctor, the smell of gunpowder and the hint of antiseptic and tea that wore itself in his skin—that was what suited him, not artificially crafted fragrance. He’d find a way to dispose of the offending article, John should not be allowed to make fashion choices, he never made good ones.

Sherlock’s eyes strayed to the top drawer, three millimetre unclosed, a quarter shifted from its usual position. John, had opened it before bed. In the compartment are few of the items John cherishes. John he has observed in recent time is not a material person, values material objects very little but he still has a few that somewhat matter to him. His medals from the war, his journal, his dog tags, and his gun are the few he treasures and had resided in the bedside table. But due to recent developments John had taken to hiding his gun to keep it from Sherlock’s fingers.

Which item had he touched?  

The medals of war he scarcely touches, leaves them in the box pushed to the far end, so not them. The journal he touches on the days his limp returns, locks himself up and looks over the pages, the only time he will look at the pages, no limp today so not the journal–dog tags then. His eyes skirt where was the gun? Not in the wardrobe John wasn’t that stupid, under his pillow? No, too dangerous. Sherlock inched forward. Where? Where did Joh–the floor creaks. Sherlock lowered his gaze to the wooden panel and he put his weight on it again, it made a low groan. The creak hadn’t been there before, even then it would take in estimation five to six years with London’s humidity and moisture index for the house to add to anymore of the usual creaking and groaning, excluding pipe damage and flooding which hadn’t happened. Sherlock smirked he was both mildly insulted, and amused that John seemed to think so little of his deduction skills. The average person, how pitiful they truly were.

He bent down and gently pried the wooden panel up and let out a snort at the little sheet of stark white paper.

_Sherlock we have been over this, the gun is not a **toy**_ _to use when you are bored. Seriously, Sherlock if you put more holes in our walls I will get you back. **Do not test me**._

Sherlock ignored the note and pushed it aside grabbing the gun; he replaced the board back in place and made for the door. Maybe he’d shoot at the ugly vase John had gotten from his last girlfriend, it wouldn’t be the wall he was shooting at. There is a twitch of a smile ghosting this was why exact wording was so critical. He is edging out of the bedroom when he hears an odd sound.

Small barely perceptible noise—an audible whimper, he corrects.

Sherlock turns his head curiously and it returns a distressed, tiny little sound. The only place it would it would originate from with any fathom is John. The sound is odd, unusual. Does not fit the man that John is, the solider that John is, the sound is out of place, strange and bizarre.

 _Interesting_.

He slowly drifts over to look at John’s prone figure peering at the face of the doctor. When John is at rest his face does not have many lines or wrinkles; the tan from overseas is starting to fade bit by bit. Sherlock leans closer studying John’s facial movements. Rapid eye movements under the lid, muscles are relaxed and body is lax, in the REM stage–vivid dreaming. The sound comes again wounded and painful–nightmare then. But about what? Had been looking at his dog tags before bed, the war? Maybe. He had recently gotten back into contact with his alcoholic sibling, a few messages and calls he’d noticed when he had borrowed his phone to antagonize the Yard (more so Lestrade and maybe a few to Anderson, that brain dead sod). Could be family tensions and war? Was it his new job? Sherlock tilted his head. What _was_ John’s nightmare about? What did the man who enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the pleasure of the game, who felt animated and alive just as he did only in danger. Only in dark corners and crevices that festered with insanity and madness in London did he flourish, who was at peace and fit right alongside Sherlock in that darkness and thrived in it. What in his nightmares frightened him?

There is a fascinating puzzle beginning to be crafted before him.

There is a ripple of agony and terror that steals the expressionless face before him and John grits his teeth, his hands tighten on his sheet. There is another agonized groan that wretches itself from John’s throat. The movement underneath his eyelids is inconsistent, his muscles are tightening and his body is tense–three to six seconds before John wakes up. Sherlock is out the door in seconds and down the stairs in four back on the couch in his stagnate and stationary position.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

There is silence.

Seven seconds later the floorboards creak and stop. _John is sitting up and has turned to place his feet over his bed. He’s sighing now–no not sighing, putting his hands into his face, his shoulders are drawn up sharp, defensive and weary. He’ll breath in deeply and exhaling in sharp breathes a couple of times and then John will take a minute or two before he’ll get back into bed and then sightlessly stare at the ceiling until he’s asleep again._

Five minutes later the ceiling creaks and the silence returns.

Sherlock’s eyes open and fixes his gaze on a spot above him. There is a puzzle now, threaded and deeply weaved and he wants to unravel it with his fingers, pick it apart and study all of it, all the parts, broken and flawed festering with dark memories. Sherlock wants to take John’s mind apart pick at all the scabs and wounds in there; he wants to study all of John Watson.

*

Sherlock proceeds in his investigation. In the next few days, he notes down the changes in a dairy. On the first day after the incident, John goes about his morning routine as usual but there is a tension in John, his movements are stilted and wary but he continues about his day. When John returns from the practice and the day drags on he does not start to prepare for his date, instead he makes himself a cup of tea and stays near Sherlock. Odd. Nevertheless, the fact that John has managed to keep steady and calm throughout the day indicates it is not a newly occurring phenomenon. They have been co–inhabiting for seven months now, so it is not a recent development, did it start after the war? Or childhood?

More information required.  

“John?” Sherlock calls from his position in the kitchen on the table as he tinkers away with his chemistry supplies.

“Yes?” John answers offhandedly while pecking away on his laptop his attention entirely consumed on the screen before him.

“Not going out this evening?” the consulting detective questioned.

“No.”

Sherlock hummed and continued adjusting his microscope. “Date stand you up?”

The hands on the keyboard stilled, John turned to stare at him. “What? How did you k–“ he paused and shook his head. “Stupid question and no I cancelled wasn’t really in the mood.”

He pressed his eye to the ocular lens. “I’m glad you are aware of your stupidity if only everyone would be aware of their own the world would be better off and I wouldn’t have to waste my valuable time.”

There’s a snort. “Arrogant git,” John mutters as he resumes his typing.

Not in the mood for interaction but fine with him he writes in his book, is he perhaps a comfort zone for John? Interesting. It makes sense he supposes, John does not have many people he trusts. Despite his exceedingly polite and affable outward nature he has very few bonds, in fact uses his politeness and friendless as mechanism to keep others at a distance. Therefore, the strongest relationship is the one John has with him so being a safe area is sensible. On the second day John is back to his usual self, fast recovery time.

And, then Sherlock notices the pattern, the nightmares usually occur two to four times in the week. John conceals it well if he had not been observing he never would have noticed. He leans to the hypothesis that nightmares are not a recent development but instead have been happening for many years and John has adapted to them. The question still unrelentingly prods at him _what does John dream about?_

*

Then he has to push his analysis and the study of John Watson to a corner in his mind for later observation and deduction. There is a _case_ that brings an ecstasy; a sweet and seductive thrill and he lets it consume him, pushes everything irrelevant away and submerges himself.

The victim is approximately a 22 years old male. Articles of clothing containing the local university’s name–university student and judging by the faint hint of resin on his fingers, residue paint underneath his nails and the fiber; fine squirrel hair on his nightgown an art student. Sherlock let his eyes stray from the body and glance around the room critical and assessing.   

John and Lestrade end up near the wall watching Sherlock curiously, both having learned that it was better to let Sherlock be at a crime scene. “Been a terror?” Greg questions.

There is a long-suffering sigh filled with weariness and hint of fond exasperation, John rolls his eyes. “He ran out of body parts in the morning I was afraid that he’d throw a tantrum and destroy the flat. Sherlock is better off occupied when he gets bored, everyone feels the affects of it.”

Lestrade cracks a smile. “Better you than all of London, honestly he’s better off with you.”

John raises his eyebrow. “Sacrificing me for the greater good, you sod?”

“Also long as it keeps Sherlock from terrorizing my department and me, yes.” The detective inspector relies instantly. John shakes his head but there is a blooming smile. Lestrade leaves it unsaid that everyone was better off once Sherlock had found John, there wasn’t as much of a biting hostility to him anymore. Lives had gotten easier for everyone since John had come around including Sherlock’s own. There is a huff, Greg lets his eyes fall on Anderson, and he could physically see the peace and silence run out the room. Bloody Hell this was going to get nasty.

“Why is he even here? It’s a typical natural cause death,” Anderson states loudly. Sherlock ignores him and continues scooping the room. Anderson sneers. “Not everything and everybody is twisted as _you_.”

Lestrade covered his face trying to shield himself from the coming blowout. John merely watched the interaction; Sherlock didn’t need defending against Anderson and honestly it was amusing to see Anderson’s face turn splotchy.

Sherlock paused and slowly turned to face Anderson, he leered down at him. “And everyone isn’t brain dead as you. I’ve been called because this isn’t the first one now is it?” His eyes turned to regard the detective inspector. “It’s the fourth.”

Greg let his hand drop and nodded. “It is.”

Sherlock’s face morphs into a mask of abhorrence and repugnance. “We’re all of deprived oxygen at the time of your births? Did the umbilical cord wrap around your necks? You waited until the forth murder to get me involved?”

Lestrade tenses. “M–Murders?” he stutters.

“Serial ones at that,” Sherlock says sweetly and happily as he smirks.

Anderson rolls his eyes. “It’s natural cause, it isn’t a murder.”

The loathing and revulsion deepen into the lines of Sherlock’s face. “How the feeble minded disgust me, tell me how long has he been dead?”

“Recently, 30 minutes the least to an hour,” Anderson recites positively gloating.

“Wrong,” Sherlock says with arrogant smirk. “Sometimes it astonishes me that no one has ever thought to correct the mistake that is your existence.”

Anderson’s face flames with indignity and anger, he stalks up to Sherlock and snarls. “What was that you f–“

“Anderson!” the crime scene technician whirls to look at his superior.

“But boss, he–“ he tries.

“I don’t care. Back off.” Lesterade states coldly and bluntly. Anderson growers and gives Sherlock a spiteful and unpleasant glare before he turns heel and leaves. Lestrade glances up skywards and shakes his head before turned to look back at the self-proclaimed consulting detective. “How long as he been dead Sherlock?”

There is snarky-biting reply. “What? Now you suddenly require my input?”

“Oh for the l–” Greg shoots John a helpless look, pleading for aid.

“Sherlock,” John coaxes calmly finally stepping into the conversation. “How did you get that? I’d like to hear your deductions.” Sherlock raised his chin haughty read to ignore the request. John smiled encouragingly. “Please?”

No one says anything Sherlock merely looks at John and the doctor looks steadily back at him.

“Fine,” Sherlock responds as he whirls his coat in a fury and walks around the room throwing out his finding. “The body has been dead for 3 weeks.”

Lestrade’s eyes shoot open. John frowned and he wandered closer to the body, tugging at his gloves as he bent down to observe the body.  “Three weeks?!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“Yes, three weeks. Downstairs I glanced at the mail; the latest mail was addressed to him three weeks ago.”

“But he could have just forgotten.” Greg tries to grasp at anything floundering.

Sherlock snorts. “Unlikely, he’s the type of person to do things instantly, he organizes his mail, has slots prepared beforehand, the month previous to this is all chronologically order so is this but it suddenly stops three weeks ago. He also has the habit of when waking up to tear the calendar sheet on the dresser, and toss it to the trash by his bed. Each day is accounted for; he stopped doing that three weeks ago. In addition, his phone has been charging for the past three weeks you can check the date under the battery settings. You can call down to the university; he’s an art student there and hasn’t shown up for class in three weeks and he isn’t bunking off he enjoys his classes, loves them in fact.”

Greg covered his mouth. “But how, the body doesn’t smell, he hasn’t rotted. It’s been three weeks! There should be something, the smell would be unbearable!”

John glances and makes eye contact with Sherlock. “He’s right, Sherlock there isn’t even a sign of biological death, and there isn’t even a stage of any sort of _mortis_.”

Sherlock’s smile is gleeful and maniacal. “It is magnificent isn’t it John?  We’ve been here for more than an hour and _pallor mortis_ isn’t present. He was given something, orally or injected but I lean towards orally there isn’t sign of a struggle, no marks on his hands and he isn’t a junkie. Whatever was given to him was a new form of drug that stopped the decaying process but killed him at the same time, something that has never been seen or recorded, entirely unknown. Its preservation, a type I never come across, never heard of, never seen! Do you see?” There is a light, glowing brighter and brighter in his eye as he continues and Sherlock is animated and alive. “He was poisoned, just like everyone else.”

Everyone turned to look at the body. The victim is a young adult, handsome most would say with fine crafted face that one would stop and look at. Porcelain and alabaster skin that is flawless and stretches finely over his face; his features are beautiful and elegantly formed, high prominent cheekbones and a finely pointed nose. A sharp striking face, his hair is dark, an impossible stark dark black that draws even more attention to him. That is not what anyone in the room is focusing on.

It is his lips, which draw attention. His blooming red lips pull upwards into a smile. A serene, tranquil, and peaceful smile; motionless and unmoving on his face, the unearthly calm expression of bliss and happiness, unnatural in all its beauty and at the same moment frightening and uncomfortable. John turns to look at Lestrade. “Did everyone look like him?”

The detective inspector does not need further explanation, he already is aware of what John is asking. After a minute, he replied thickly, “ _Yes_.”

In merely seconds, there is a flurry of movement and everything blurs to life. Lestrade has his phone to his ear, and the crime scene is bustling.

Sherlock smiles indulgently, childish and carefree. “Serial murders, John,” he whispers softly, revered and awed. “ _Is it not lovely?_ ”

John’s throat bobs uncomfortably and he tears his gaze from Sherlock instead looking at the sheet. Sherlock does not notice the sudden silence instead; he is already briskly walking away demanding access and locations of bodies. John watches his back disappear and runs his fingers through his hair, slowly getting up from kneeling before the body. He ignores the prickle in his mind, a creeping doubt and forces it away; they have more important matters to attend with and given Sherlock’s lack of self-preservation, he had better be prepared.


End file.
